The Book Thief by Markus Zusak Page A

was sworn at for holding the bag wrong. Nothing but serenity.
    She came to like the people, too:
    * The Pfaffelhürvers, inspecting the clothes and saying,
“Ja, ja, sehr gut, sehr gut.”
Liesel imagined that they did everything twice.
    * Gentle Helena Schmidt, handing the money over with an arthritic curl of the hand.
    * The Weingartners, whose bent-whiskered cat always answered the door with them. Little Goebbels, that’s what they called him, after Hitler’s right-hand man.
    * And Frau Hermann, the mayor’s wife, standing fluffy-hairedand shivery in her enormous, cold-aired doorway. Always silent. Always alone. No words, not once.
    Sometimes Rudy came along.
    “How much money do you have there?” he asked one afternoon. It was nearly dark and they were walking onto Himmel Street, past the shop. “You’ve heard about Frau Diller, haven’t you? They say she’s got candy hidden somewhere, and for the right price …”
    “Don’t even think about it.” Liesel, as always, was gripping the money hard. “It’s not so bad for you—you don’t have to face my mama.”
    Rudy shrugged. “It was worth a try.”
    In the middle of January, schoolwork turned its attention to letter writing. After learning the basics, each student was to write two letters, one to a friend and one to somebody in another class.
    Liesel’s letter from Rudy went like this:
    Dear Saumensch
,
    Are you still as useless at soccer as you were the last time we played? I hope so. That means I can run past you again just like Jesse Owens at the Olympics …
.
    When Sister Maria found it, she asked him a question, very amiably.
    SISTER MARIA’S OFFER
“Do you feel like visiting the corridor, Mr. Steiner?”
    Needless to say, Rudy answered in the negative, and the paper was torn up and he started again. The second attempt was written to someone named Liesel and inquired as to what her hobbies might be.
    At home, while completing a letter for homework, Liesel decided that writing to Rudy or some other
Saukerl
was actually ridiculous. It meant nothing. As she wrote in the basement, she spoke over to Papa, who was repainting the wall again.
    Both he and the paint fumes turned around.
“Was wuistz?”
Now this was the roughest form of German a person could speak, but it was spoken with an air of absolute pleasantness. “Yeah, what?”
    “Would I be able to write a letter to Mama?”
    A pause.
    “What do you want to write a letter to her for? You have to put up with her every day.” Papa was
schmunzel
ing—a sly smile. “Isn’t that bad enough?”
    “Not
that
mama.” She swallowed.
    “Oh.” Papa returned to the wall and continued painting. “Well, I guess so. You could send it to what’s-her-name—the one who brought you here and visited those few times—from the foster people.”
    “Frau Heinrich.”
    “That’s right. Send it to her. Maybe she can send it on to your mother.” Even at the time, he sounded unconvincing, as if he wasn’t telling Liesel something. Word of her mother had also been tight-lipped on Frau Heinrich’s brief visits.
    Instead of asking him what was wrong, Liesel began writing immediately, choosing to ignore the sense of foreboding that was quick to accumulate inside her. It took three hours and six drafts to perfect the letter, telling her mother all about Molching, her papa and his accordion, the strange but true ways of Rudy Steiner, and the exploits of Rosa Hubermann. She also explained how proud she was that she could now read and write a little. The next day, she posted it at Frau Diller’s with a stamp from the kitchen drawer. And she began to wait.
    The night she wrote the letter, she overheard a conversation between Hans and Rosa.
    “What’s she doing writing to her mother?” Mama was saying. Her voice was surprisingly calm and caring. As you can imagine, this worried the girl a great deal. She’d have preferred to hear them arguing. Whispering adults hardly inspired confidence.
    “She asked